


A Drunken Guessing Game

by dreaminghour



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, I didn't know crack would be this addictive, everything is canon except, my first crack fic, spoilers in tags!, their undergarments, this was fun and I'd like to do it again!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreaminghour/pseuds/dreaminghour
Summary: On the eve of battle many have paired off to sleep or... something else.Podrick & Tyrion are very drunk but they have paired off for a game that reminds them of the old days. Will they pass out before the thrilling conclusion?
Relationships: Tyrion Lannister & Podrick Payne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	A Drunken Guessing Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Birdie_Lo_Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdie_Lo_Green/gifts).



“At least someone is having fun,” Tyrion said, indicating toward underclothes that had been forgotten in a pile of hay.

“Mm. Fun,” Podrick said. He was currently holding himself up with a lance, swaying all the while, until he began to lean precariously forward.

“Whup!” Tyrion rushed over and, for all his stature, did his best to push Podrick against the doorframe. “Stay there. In a moment I’ll get you to your room.”

“Alright,” Podrick licked his lips and closed his eyes. “Where am I now?”

“Leaning against the doorframe, Pod.”

“Am I not walking?”

Tyrion scooted back to lean against the gate that sectioned off the paddock, and a disgruntled horse nibbled at his curls. He could feel the damp spot where the creature had been a bit too generous sharing saliva.

“Seems we’ve awoken the inhabitants.”

“Anybody here?” Podrick asked, looking a bit more alert for the moment. “Should we leave them alone?” He whispered loudly, then he hobbled toward the hay pile with his lance. “Ah, unoccupied.” He began to bend his knees in a funny way, like a cow going down for a nap.

“Podrick,” Tyrion spoke sternly, “if you lay down, you will be there all night. I will not be able to get you to your bed.”

“Sorry, my lord.”

“I’m not your lord any longer,” Tyrion said in the usual somber retort.

“Whose do you think that is?” Podrick was now looking at the same lace and pewter bra that lay in the straw. “Cup size is about that of a smaller woman, but not as small as you— begging your pardon, my lord.”

“The style seems too frilly for any of the women who would be fighting, unless she had specific designs on a specific man.” Tyrion thought a moment and then nodded sagely. “It belongs to Arya Stark. She probably made off with Robert’s bastard.”

Podrick gasped. “I never imagined she would wear something so lacy and padded!”

“Did you think she wouldn’t wear anything at all? You must know that women don’t like things loose. That can be quite painful.”

Podrick nodded. “The ladies in the brothel said they only didn’t wear bras because they were constantly taking their clothes on and off anyway.”

“Yes, I seem to recall those bandeaus that are all stretchy and lacy were all the rage under summer dresses. Ah, Spring’s Landing. Or, was it…”

“Lord Tyrion, you’re a married man!” 

“In my bachelor days, of course.” Tyrion smiled.

“Feels disrespectful to talk about Lady Stark’s underthings,” Podrick said.

Tyrion was grateful that he didn’t know the particulars of Sansa’s underwear.

“What do you think the Stark men wear?” Podrick asked.

“Practical things. Something you can boil the shit out of.”

“Ah. Tighty-whities.”

“Bet you can’t guess what Ser Bronn of the Blackwater prefers.”

“Trick question,” Podrick said, swaying once more. “He goes commando.”

“Close, but—”

“But in battle he wears a jock-strap.”

“Very astute.”

“Bet you can’t guess that Ser Brienne wears.”

“Too easy, boxer briefs.” Tyrion got up when the horse came back to drool on him some more.

“That _was_ too easy.” Podrick sounded a bit sullen. 

“Come on, Pod, let's get you to bed for a few hours.”

“My lord, I will not let you take advantage—”

“Do shut up,” Tyrion said and smacked Podrick, hard, on the back of his thigh.

Podrick yelped and dropped his spear, but he stood alone now.

“Wha-hey! Guess you can walk to your quarters on your own now,” Tyrion said, and began to walk off.

“I can’t— I was going to sleep on the floor outside Lady— Ser Brienne’s room, but ah— I think— I think she may not be alone in there.”

“Come on, then. I’ve got too large a bed and a very comfortable chair.”

“My lord, I cannot put you out of your bed.”

“No, you’re getting the chair. It’s very comfortable.”

Podrick grunted, then asked: “What about your brother?”

“What about my brother?”

“What type of underwear does he wear?”

“You can’t guess?”

The two stumbled across the courtyard in silence, passing grumbling men who were trying to sleep or struggling to drink, it was unclear in the dark. They came to the stairs and stopped to look at one another. “‘Nothing gets between me and my Tywins,’” they said as one, and laughed.

The stairs thoroughly took the breath out of them, so they stopped on the landing a moment.

“Look,” Podrick said, pointing at Tyrion, who was clinging to the railing, “a Lannister on a bannister.”

“Come here so I can beat you.”

“Heh-heh-heh-heh, come and get me.”

Neither of them moved.

“Does Ser Brienne also wear a frilly thing—” Tyrion made a gesture toward his own chest “like—” and then he gestured toward the stable. “I can’t see it. She must wear something with good support, lots of stretch, for an active woman.”

“You know your chests, my lord.”

“Some of them, anyway.”

“Shall we?”

Neither of them moved.

“I know there was always talk about what was in Lord Varys’s pants, but he must’ve— I mean— he must’ve worn something nice, silk boxers or something.”

“I also know very little of the contents of Lord Varys’s pants, but yes, he had good taste. Probably wore the whole of the yearly export of Naarthi silk under those fluttering robes, the glutton.” Tyrion let out a long huff of air. “I think I’m sobering up.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” Podrick said.

“I hate it.”

“You always did.”

Tyrion squinted at his former squire.

“You know what I wear, Pod—”

“The most boring—”

“Sensible trunks, not as no-nonsense as a Stark, comfortable. But I have no idea what you wear.”

Podrick was silent a long moment, then said, “Come, we should get some rest.”

“What do you have under those trousers?!” Tyrion lunged at Podrick, as though to pull his pants down, but tripped over his own feet and Podrick caught him before he tumbled back down the stairs.

“Let’s get you to bed, my lord.”

They passed from the wooden walkways into the keep proper, the wing for guests that seemed to beg its occupants to leave as soon as possible, before the true cold got a hold of them.

“I never found out what Littlefinger liked to wear under those robes,” Tyrion said and paused in the middle of the hallway.

“I suspect he, like most who wore those long southern robes, and dresses, wore a shift like the Maesters do, rather than proper pants.”

Tyrion thought Podrick sounded like he had seen more Maesters in shifts than was likely good for anyone’s health.

“That does seem wisest. With all those layers to lift up and—”

“Do you think the wildlings wear underwear?”

“Long johns. Definitely.”

“You sure?”

“If you don’t believe me, I’m sure one of the free folk would be willing to show you.”

“They aren’t all men?”

“Don’t think that matters.”

Podrick waved at Tyrion to continue walking. “Another time perhaps.” He then put his hand on the cold wall and used it to support his journey along it.

“Begging your pardon, my lord—”

“Podrick, I’m going to strangle you.”

“I’ll get you a stool, my lord.”

Tyrion stopped to seeth at him while Podrick tripped past and opened the chamber door.

“After you, Tyrion.”

“If you’re going to ask about Sansa, I have no idea—”

“No, your father.”

“Great man of action, like him, what do you think?”

“Pfffffffbbbtt.” Podrick shrugged.

“I’ll tell you what. You tell me what you wear, and I’ll tell you what he wore when he wasn’t dying.”

Podrick helped Tyrion with his boots, and then both collapsed on the edge of the bed, out of breath once more.

“Alright,” Podrick said, “you first.”

Tyrion made a face and was about to say something, but Podrick spoke again quickly.

“My lord, you’ll make up some excuse after, or you’ll pull some stunt about rank or something.”

“You were once my squire, have you really risen so far—”

“Alright, Brienne got me to try boxer briefs, and I’ve never been more comfortable before in my life.”

“Really? Better than trunks?” Tyrion fell back onto his pillows with a grunt. “I never got what was so special about the extra length, all that hemming. Makes you bulky.”

“Your turn,” Podrick said. When he turned to look at the Lannister, however, he saw his eyes were closed, his mouth agape, and his beard twitching. “Damn it, you wanker,” Podrick whispered, and lay back on the bed as well.

“Heh, heard that.” Tyrion smacked his lips. “A thong.”

Podrick groaned. After dozing off for a moment, he asked: “What about the Snow King?”

Tyrion was so still Podrick thought he’d actually fallen asleep this time.

“Tighty-whities as well?” Podrick prompted, quietly.

“Only when he’s in the south, otherwise it’s long johns for him as well,” Tyrion replied.

“Ha! Long ‘Jon’s.’ Haha.”

“Good night, Pod.”

“Good night, Tyrion.”

They fell asleep smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Birdie_Lo_Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdie_Lo_Green) for the Calvin's/Tywin's line! And in general for being my cheerleader. ♥ This one's for both of us. Don't you kind of wish the cast could read it?


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